Dinner for One
by vmariew
Summary: Serge discovers a very strange dinner party in progress with some unexpected guests participating in a number of surprising revelations.


_**Greetings, all, and a very happy New Year. I wish you all the very best for 2018. I thought I ought to reassure you all that I had not fallen off the face of the earth in the past few weeks. The show went well, the end of term was hectic and my thought finally turned to Christmas about two weeks before it arrived!**_

 _ **Be reassured, I am now set to return to 'Redemption' but the idea for this came to me about 3.05 one night shortly before Christmas. The title and premise stem from a short, two-hander comedy sketch written by Lauri Wylie back in the 1920s. It was filmed in black and white in 1963 starring Freddie Frinton and May Warden. It has never been shown in its entirety in the UK but, incredibly, it is traditionally shown on German television channels every New Year's Eve. It is now shown in many other countries, including Denmark, Sweden, Switzerland, Austria and Australia, to name but a few. It is the most frequently repeated television programme ever but ask most Brits and they have never heard of it. I directed a stage version of it a few years ago in another Christmas show. It is funny with set repeated visual jokes/catch phrase and can be found on Youtube. However, I originally intended to write this much darker version for the December challenge but with the festivities, time ran away from me.**_

 _ **So here it is, somewhat sentimental (just as I am at this time of year!) and I hope you like it. Apologies for any errors that have crept through – I shall blame them on it being 1.31 am!**_

 **Dinner for One**

When he was disturbed by the sound of furniture being dragged across the stone floor in the main refectory adjoining the small room where he slept, Serge felt duty bound to investigate. He moved as quietly as his advanced years would allow into his cooking domain where he found the kitchen boy, wide-eyed and trembling with fear as he sat on his paillasse* on the floor, back against the door to the store cupboard, knees drawn up and hugging them tightly.

The boy went to speak but Serge silenced him with a finger raised to his own lips. Arming himself with a heavy pan, he crossed toward the large eating area, usually occupied by musketeers in more sociable hours and, when some returned very late at night from a mission, the more unsociable ones.

Although he had allowed the fire in the hearth to burn low before he retired, there was enough light for him to see what was happening from the dying embers and the half a dozen flickering candles which he knew he had carefully extinguished more than an hour earlier.

There was more movement, determined and purposeful as a tall, slender, leather-clad figure circumnavigated the table, throwing pewter dishes and cups down onto its surface with little thought about the resultant din at this late hour. Serge, the garrison's cook, estimated that it was after midnight.

"What's he doing?" whispered the terrified boy at his back.

"Not settin' the table to break 'is fast, that's for certain," the grizzled veteran answered, his eyes never leaving the unusual spectacle before him and listening as the soldier began a strange conversation, one where he appeared to take all parts.

"Go an' get the others," the old cook ordered, assuming it was totally unnecessary for him to elucidate upon what he meant by 'the others.' "You'd best use the back way. They'll be wantin' to see this an' you'd better make it quick."

The boy disappeared, on the one hand relieved that he was escaping the musketeer's undoubtedly bizarre behaviour whilst on the other, reluctant to miss what might unfold next. Consequently, he scampered swiftly to the first of the three requisite rooms, initially knocking lightly and then increasing the volume when his timid tapping elicited no response.

Eventually, the door was opened, thrown back on its hinges and the kitchen boy retreated a step or two as a giant of a man, roused from a deep sleep and one eye barely open, scowled down at him.

"What's goin' on?" he demanded.

"Serge says you're to come to the refectory quick. He says you'll want to see what he's doing."

Exhausted by a strenuous and disappointing mission, and relaxed by more than his fair share of a couple of jugs of ale, Porthos had been abed for nearly two hours when he was so rudely awakened and, even had his life been dependent upon it, he could not gather his thoughts sufficiently to think why the old cook should want him personally to witness whatever it was he was doing in his own kitchen; such was the confusion raised by the boy's careless use of the pronoun.

Before Porthos could ask for clarification, the boy was off, his steps making very little noise as he hurried along the corridor to stop outside the room used by another of Tréville's _Inseparables_ where he repeated the process.

At least two other doors opened to reveal disgruntled musketeers demanding to know what was amiss and more than one disembodied expletive could be heard from men far from happy about the disturbance.

"Go back to sleep," Porthos growled to any who listened as he followed the boy, pulling a large shirt over his head as he went and leaving it untucked. He had no plans on vacating his warm bed for long.

With a baffled Porthos and Aramis in tow, the boy headed to the last of the three rooms he needed to visit and was leading them all back across the practice yard when Captain Tréville himself descended the stairs from his office and quarters and moved to intercept them. It was clear that the officer had still been working at his desk for although he was minus his doublet, there was not a hair or piece of clothing out of place and he was fully alert, unlike his men who had returned earlier in the evening, frustrated and spent by a futile, three-day mission.

Listening to their leader give his usual succinct report in an unusually drained monotone, he had shared their irritation at their thwarted task and uttered silent words of thanks to the Almighty that the four men had come back completely unscathed from the unexpected attack they had endured and which had subsequently terminated their assignment.

"What's wrong?" he said, his gaze ranging over the three men. "Where's Athos?"

"Safely asleep in his bed if he 'as any sense," Porthos muttered, glaring at the kitchen boy.

"He's in the refectory; that's why I've to bring you, Serge says," the boy insisted, frightened eyes darting from the angry, big musketeer to the Captain, a man whom he had rarely had occasion to address directly.

Tréville frowned. "Let me get this straight. Serge has told you to wake up these men and half the garrison because Athos is in the refectory?"

The boy nodded with such vehemence, he was in danger of hurting his neck. "And Serge says to come around the back." At that, he broke into a run and the bemused men watched him for a moment.

"Serge says this an' Serge says that. I wish Serge had stayed quiet," Porthos complained and then sighed as he strode in the boy's wake.

As soon as he heard the men approaching, Serge raised a hand and the soldier's instinct took over as they moved stealthily to join him, standing around and behind him, peering over his shoulder at what had his attention.

"What the …..?" d'Artagnan did not know how to finish his question.

"Is he drunk?" Tréville asked more directly, his eyes narrowing as anger stirred within him.

"'E wasn't when 'e started," Serge replied, "but the more I watch him, the more I'm thinkin' he's asleep."

"His eyes are open though," d'Artagnan insisted.

"But 'is senses aren't working the same," Serge declared.

"Have you tried speaking to him?" Tréville wondered, his anger dissipating as rapidly as it had begun.

Serge shook his head. "I've known men walk and more whilst all the while in a deep sleep and it was never a good idea to wake 'em up all of a sudden. I've seen some of 'em collapse with the shock of it and others that've turned violent, wakin' up fightin', not knowin' where they were or who's with 'em. 'E might not be wearing 'is sword right now but I wasn't goin' to chance him not 'avin' somethin' on 'im somewhere if I took 'im by surprise."

"A wise move," Tréville acknowledged.

"What made them like it?" d'Artagnan wanted to know, intrigued by what Serge had told them and never having seen anything like it before.

The old man shrugged before answering. "Horrors of the battlefield, guilt at havin' survived an' just 'avin' a troubled mind."

The _Inseparables_ shared an anxious glance with their Captain.

"Has he done this in the past?" Tréville asked.

"Nightmares, yes. This? Never to our knowledge," Aramis answered for the three, speaking for the first time. "What exactly is he doing?" and he nodded past the old cook to where Athos stood, surveying the table, a wine bottle in his hand.

"From what I've seen, 'e's hostin' a dinner with seven guests an' they've just 'ad the second course. He's just getting' ready for the main one. Not sure 'ow many 'e's intendin' but e'll be drunk before them with all the toastin'."

Porthos was about to speak but stopped abruptly when Tréville caught his arm to ask his own question. "Do you know who the supposed guests are?"

"Well 'e's certainly not standin' on any form of ceremony, not observin' their status an' all," Serge began as he pointed towards the far end of the table. "'E's at the head there when 'e thinks of sittin' down. Goin' round the table, an' from what I can gather, his father is sittin' there on his right, then a woman and some man before we get to the Cardinal on the end." Serge suddenly sniggered. "The King's there at the foot o' the table; I'll be good an' not make no comment as to that. Then comin' back up the table this side, you're sittin' there." He looked directly at the Captain who visibly started on hearing the news. "Next to you's d'Artagnan an' Porthos an' Aramis here."

Aramis looked worried. "I have a feeling that I'm not really going to like being a guest at this particular dinner."

"I should think not," Serge chided, "not with what you've all been sayin' to 'im."

None of them understood his meaning so the old man explained.

"You see what 'e's doin' now? He's fillin' each of the cups with wine in readiness for the toasts. He goes around the table and gives a toast to 'imself as each one of you. It's not like any toast I've ever 'eard; he's got nothin' good to say about 'imself an' he'll be roarin' drunk before 'e's finished."

"And he says these bad things from us too?" Aramis asked. His heart sank as the old man nodded.

Porthos nudged him. "Looks like he's going to give a toast now."

Athos stood behind the chair to the left of the one at the head of the table, raised his cup in salutation and addressed the empty chair where he was supposedly sitting.

"My son and heir." The voice was clipped and dripping with sarcasm. "I had such high hopes for you but you are nothing short of a disappointment to me. Five centuries of de la Fères and what do you do?" He slammed the cup down on the table top, its contents spilling over the top and leaving a pool of blood-red wine on the wood. Gripping the chair back so hard that his knuckles visibly whitened, he leaned forward menacingly and hissed at the empty chair. "You turned your back on it, everything your family has spent generations building up. You just walked away and abandoned your responsibilities, your duties. You are no son of mine; I disown you."

Aramis gave a horrified gasp as Athos picked up the cup and straightened, gesturing towards the chair once more.

"To the son who never was!" Raising the cup to his lips, Athos threw back his head and drained the cup of its contents. He moved to the next place setting and picked up that cup.

"I thought you loved me," he murmured, the regret evident in his voice.

"Milady," d'Artagnan whispered.

"We had it all and you threw it away. If you had truly loved me, you'd have trusted and believed me, but instead you would have me hanged and you could not even do that right." The tone was initially wheedling and swiftly became accusatory. "You claimed that you were upholding the law. Is that what you became a musketeer to continue, Athos? Upholding the law in your own incompetent fashion?" and here he raised the cup again, his voice caustic. "To Athos, the murderer who hides behind the law."

A second cup was emptied, and Athos wavered unsteadily as he progressed down the table, having already imbibed two lots of toasts and they had seen how much he had generously poured into each of the cups for this round.

"My wonderful big brother!" Athos' voice was now cutting. "I looked up to you, worshipped the ground you walked upon and thought you could do no wrong. Then you married _her_ and brought her home. I tried to warn you but you would not listen and let her kill me. To my brother the destroyer. You successfully destroyed the family … and me!"

"It's the Cardinal now," Serge announced unnecessarily and, as Tréville turned to look at him, the kitchen boy was lurking behind them, watching proceedings.

The Captain frowned. "Go!" he ordered. "Back to your bed and you are not to repeat anything of what you have heard or seen here this night. You understand me?"

The boy nodded vigorously and turned on his heels whilst Tréville's attention was drawn back to the table when Athos spoke.

"I can fully understand why your wife framed you for all those crimes. Pity your execution was halted – you are naught but a thorn in my side." Athos gestured with the fourth cup of the round. "To the meddling musketeer," and he gave a low, uncharacteristic chuckle that was devoid of any amusement. "How poetic!"

Athos swallowed the wine and wavered as he moved to the end of the table. Using one hand on the chairback to steady himself, he picked up the next cup and glared at the place where he imagined himself sitting. He swayed momentarily, the bursts of swiftly consumed alcohol clearly taking their toll before he pulled himself up to his full height to launch into yet another vitriolic tirade.

"Call yourself a musketeer? I made a grave mistake when I commissioned a drunkard. You are supposed to protect me, your King. How can you fulfil that important responsibility in this state?" It was disconcerting to hear the petulant whine of the monarch being mimicked by the stoic musketeer but there was no mistaking the representation of Louis.

"I can't listen to this," Aramis groaned. "Why is he doing this to himself?" and he watched as Athos downed another cup of wine.

"This is dark," Porthos admitted. "I know I wonder what is goin' on in 'is head most of the time but I never thought it was like this."

"We need to stop him," Tréville said grimly and made to step out from the doorway in which the group had secreted themselves, but it was d'Artagnan, surprisingly, who extended a hand and stopped his commanding officer.

"We are next. We are his friends, his brothers; he must be more positive now."

Any optimism that d'Artagnan might have been feeling was about to be dashed.

"I thought I could save you from yourself, your demons and the drink, but I was only fooling myself and wasting my time."

Tréville took a sharp intake of breath as Athos spoke what he believed the commanding officer was thinking.

"I would never give up on him," the Captain breathed, not realising he had voiced the words aloud.

"We know that," Aramis reassured him, "and so does he." He inclined his head to indicate Athos.

"I give you Athos, the musketeer failure; the man who fails in everything he does and every relationship he has."

As he threw back his head to consume more wine, he overbalanced and sat down heavily on the floor with a grunt. Aramis, his face contorted in anxiety for his brother, would have surged forward if Porthos had not held him back. Athos rocked where he sat and, with an impassioned roar, hauled himself up by the table leg and stood unsteadily.

"He is getting drunker by the minute," Aramis spat out.

"And he's mood's getting' darker just as quickly so we have to hear 'im out. If 'is' thoughts are that twisted an' he can say what 'e did about the Captain, I want to hear what 'e says about us. We 'ave to know what's in his 'ead to stand any chance of helpin' him," Porthos insisted. "Not so positive now, eh?" he added, glancing in d'Artagnan's direction.

The young Gascon flushed one instant only for the colour to drain just as rapidly from his face as Athos railed against himself.

"You are supposed be my mentor, my brother, but never have I met someone so cold, so removed and so self-absorbed. To Athos, the man of ice, who holds everyone at bay."

D'Artagnan gasped at the accusation supposedly emanating from him. He turned troubled eyes to the others as Porthos threw a supportive arm about his shoulders.

Athos now held tightly to the table edge as he moved to the position allegedly occupied by Porthos whilst the living, breathing version frowned and said through gritted teeth, "I can't wait to hear what he has to say from me."

Wavering as he picked up the full cup and spilling more of its contents on the floor, Athos pointed at his imaginary self with the vessel. "Never thought I'd say it but my patience is wearin' thin. I've dealt with your moodiness an' your silence long enough an' I've put you to bed in a drunken stupor more times than I can remember an' I've decided that I've 'ad enough. This is the last time. To the melancholy musketeer." Another cup was emptied and Athos leaned heavily on the table as he bowed his head and gathered himself.

"He must be feeling bad by now," d'Artagnan muttered quietly and Aramis nodded an agreement.

"I would _never_ say that to him," Porthos insisted, the others making conciliatory noises. "An' I wouldn't even be thinkin' it!"

Lurching to the left, Athos grabbed desperately for the next chair, his eyes struggling to focus on the table before him. Swaying dangerously, he gave a malevolent glare in the direction of the seat where he was supposedly sitting.

"Look at you - the man of mystery; always the one with the secrets. How hard Porthos and I have worked to try to get you to open up a little, to let us in, and it has been a difficult journey every step of the way. How long was it before you told us about her?" he said scathingly, his words badly slurring now as he pointed across the table to where his imaginary Comtesse was seated. "What else have you held back? What other dark secrets are still locked away inside your head? How can we ever be expected to trust you completely? Enough is enough. I give you Athos the untrustworthy."

He staggered a couple of paces and sank into the chair at the head of the table as he reached for another bottle, pulled out the stopper, refilled his own cup and leaned across to pour more into the cup to the right.

"It is your turn again, father. I am sure you can think of many more of my shortcomings that you have noted over the years." Athos face the empty chair, straightened his back and raised his chin as if offering himself as a target for yet another verbal punch.

Serge tutted loudly. "I knew this boy came with a barrow load of problems, but I never thought it was anything like this."

"I am putting a stop to this. He is torturing himself," Tréville said, striding over to the table to the place that had been allotted to him and grabbing the bottle as soon as Athos put it down. Tipping enough wine into the cup for a couple of mouthfuls, he sat down just as Athos moved to his father's place. He tried to stand in position as he had done during the previous round of toasts but thought better of it and slumped into the seat.

"Oh, believe me, I have a long list of failures on your part. I would be hard-pressed to think of anything you have done that is worthy of a de la Fère but then that's all –"

"Forgive me for interrupting, Monsieur le Comte." Tréville's tone was deliberately deferential as he rose once more to his feet. He looked directly at Athos and watched the confusion flicker across the handsome face. "it is as if we are thinking of two entirely different people and I do not believe that a man can change to that extent. I respectfully ask you to open your eyes to the young man as I know him. He has been a musketeer for five years. That was obviously not what you would have wanted for your son, but I can assure you that he is a soldier with whom very few can compare and no-one can match his skill with a sword."

The rest of the _Inseparables_ watched open-mouthed at the bizarre situation. Had it not been so serious, it would have been laughable; Tréville was speaking to Athos as if he were addressing the man's father.

"As his commanding officer, I am telling you that he is a man in whom I have complete faith and to demonstrate that, I regard him as my second, my lieutenant. He has fought beside me and I would trust him with my life; indeed, he has saved my life more than once. You value him so little that you would cast him aside, but I would venture to suggest that you have seriously underestimated him and, in the end, what is my gain is undoubtedly your loss. You may not want him but in the Musketeers he has found a new family, a new brotherhood – three in particular. He is a leader with many qualities and he is much respected by his colleagues.

"As for you, Milady, I do not know the finer points of your history with Athos nor do I wish to, unless he wants to divulge more of that information to me but I _do_ know the man who sits there and I have seen for myself the dire impact you have upon him whenever you appear, the way you manipulate him and mess with his head. For whatever reason, I suspect that he still harbours feelings for you, strong feelings, and if I could do anything that would make you disappear from his life once and for all, I would do it without any hesitation, anything to save him and his sanity. He deserves so much more that is better. There is no hiding behind the law as far as Athos is concerned; he upholds the law of the King, of Paris, of this country without question."

Tréville feared for a moment that he had gone too far when he saw the drunken young man's eyes glisten with unshed tears and his head dipped. The Captain knew from the reaction that Athos was listening, that something was having an effect upon him and the advantage should not be lost.

"Thomas, your brother was torn between the two people who meant the most to him in the world. Put yourself in his shoes and tell me what you would have done. Whom would you have believed? I do not know any of the events that led up to her murdering you but as I have said, I know him and had he been able, he would have done everything in his power to prevent what happened to you. Do not hold this against him; he did not betray you and he has been eaten up with guilt ever since, punishing himself in his own way every day.

"Cardinal, I am not surprised to see you at this table. You sought to destroy one of my men and I am thankful that you do think of him as meddlesome. He only wanted to find the proof that would bring you down and his suspicions caused you more than a little concern.

"Your Majesty, I assure you that Athos has never been drunk on duty at the palace; I would never have permitted that and he would not have allowed himself to be in that situation. He has defended you, the Queen and others on so many occasions and he has carried out his duty with incredible bravery. You know that he has, on occasions, been injured in the pursuit of his mission. I would stake my own reputation on defending this man's honour."

He shifted position slightly so that he faced the chair at the head of the table and held out his cup. "I give you a toast - Athos, who has never disappointed me, a man of integrity and honour, loyal to King and country; a man I am proud to have in my regiment and proud to call friend."

Tréville swallowed his wine and sat down abruptly. During his long speech, he had sensed rather than seen the other _Inseparables_ taking their places at the table as quietly as possible and passing the bottle between them to replenish cups. Athos leaned back in his chair, speechless and blinking owlishly at his Captain as he struggled to absorb the words in his befuddled state.

A chair scraped back as d'Artagnan got to his feet. "Athos, you accepted me as your brother at a time when you did not have to; after all, I had wrongly accused you of murdering my father. However, you have taught me so much, helped me in curbing my recklessness and over-enthusiasm, instructed me in developing my skills with a sword. That work is ongoing and for that I thank you. You are my mentor, you have given me the hand of friendship and you are my brother in all things save blood; I respect you and admire you and nothing is ever going to change that. A toast – to Athos my brother."

Spontaneously, the word 'brother' was echoed by both Porthos and Aramis as they drank to the man who sat across the table from them. The wine was responsible for the heightened colour in his cheeks, otherwise his face was a deathly pale hue as his expression wavered between disbelief to a sense of being overwhelmed.

There was no relief from the plaudits and Porthos stood as d'Artagnan resumed his seat.

Porthos cleared his throat, looked around at those gathered and then fixed Athos with a steady gaze as he spoke.

"As these men are my witnesses, I swear to you that I'd never turn my back on you, I'd never say that I'd had enough. I admit I get angry with you sometimes but that's when I see what you do to yourself, just like you're doin' right now. There's none of us perfect, least of all me, and you've had more than a lifetime's worth of tragedy 'appen to you but I wish I could save you from laying the blame for everythin' at your own door. It's like everythin' that goes wrong in this world is your fault and it's just not true, so you'll keep on getting' drunk an' I'll keep on puttin' you to bed an' I won't mind because of all the other times you've 'ad my back. We look out for each other because that's what brothers do an' that's what you are to me. A toast, gentlemen. Athos, _my_ brother."

Again, the sentiment was echoed at the table as Aramis stood. He waited for a moment as Athos' head had dropped again and he wondered if his friend had succumbed to a drunken stupor.

"Athos," he called gently when there was still no movement. "Athos!"

Slowly, the head came up and there was no hiding the two tears that streaked the musketeer's face. Athos made no attempt to wipe them away.

"Every man has his secrets and it is his choice as to whether he shares them but if he can just find one person in whom he can confide, then I truly believe that such revelation can ease a burdened heart. You may have had your reasons to keep your secrets – and they were momentous ones when we eventually found them out – and I dare say you keep a tight hold on a few more but it begs the question as to why? Do you believe we would think any the less of you? That is not possible, brother. Porthos was right. None of us is perfect; as men we are all as sinners." His voice trailed off momentarily as he thought of the momentous secret he and Athos shared, that of his own indiscretion with the Queen and the suspicion that the child she carried, the future French monarch, was his issue. "But it is the willingness and ability to forgive that transcends all. You forgive others, me included, but you must learn to forgive yourself. You are, without doubt, the most noble man I know and I love you for it. My toast now. Noble Athos, brother to us all."

With that, the other three men rose, repeated what he said and drank as one. Even Serge, hidden in the shadows afforded by the doorway, mouthed the words and sniffed loudly.

Athos slumped in the chair and Aramis swiftly moved around the table to crouch at his side. One hand to the other man's cheek and the other laid lightly on his arm was all that it took. Aramis glanced up at the men who had joined him and smiled wryly.

"He's asleep."

"Or unconscious," Porthos offered.

Aramis merely shrugged. "It makes no difference but we ought to get him to his bed."

"Well," Porthos sighed, "I did say I'd go on puttin' 'im to bed when need be an' this looks like it's needed so I'd better make good on my words."

They all stood back to give Porthos room as he pulled Athos to his feet and slung his limp form with ease over a shoulder.

D'Artagnan suddenly chuckled. "He went to bed sober, so he may be in for a surprise when he wakes up with this hangover."

"No," Porthos contradicted him. "'E drinks to forget an' never manages it."

"But if he was walking in his sleep, is he likely to remember any of what has transpired this evening?" Aramis asked. "What's your experience of this, Serge?"

"There's none of 'em remembered it on wakin' as far as I can recall," the old veteran explained. "The troubled mind can play devilish tricks on a man an' none of 'em 'ave believed us when we've tried to tell 'em the next morning."

"I would like him to remember, to know how much we all think of him," d'Artagnan said.

Tréville sighed. "There is a part of me that hopes he does not; he would be mortified that we had seen him in so vulnerable a state. He would not trust himself to sleep properly again if that were the case; to him, he would have lost all control and that would never do."

He looked conspiratorially at the men around him. "This night we will keep our own secrets, our own counsel. We do not speak to anyone of what we have witnessed, least of all Athos if he has no recollection. We are strangely privileged in being privy to the darker recesses of his mind; it is what we have long suspected and it is up to each and every one of us to find a way of reminding him of what he means to us so that eventually, he may have some idea of his own self-worth. Gentlemen," and he paused to smile at each man in turn. "This is a prime example of all for one."

"And one for all," they whispered in unison, intent in their desire not to disturb their sleeping companion.

 **A/N**

 *** thin, straw-filled mattress**


End file.
